Chapter XIV: Part 14

Now we knew, from tradition, that there certainly was a long, but not a difficult way to the eagle's nest, through the hills; but though many had tried that was born and bred near them, none could ever find it out; and then comes Misther Millet, piping hot from a Liverpool 'counting-house, and discovers it without trying, and much against his own will, to boot!--His wonder wasn't well over, before home came the great hen-eagle, with a lamb; and from that time, he didn't dare stir; for she never ceased eyeing him, as though she was only waiting until he made a move, to dart at his face. By-and-by, home came her mate too; and the sight of him didn't make Misther Millet feel a morsel more aisy, I take lave to suppose; especially when he saw that the bird had a child in its clutch:--and there sat the little man, half dead with hunger, and cold, and fear, when James Dingle looked in upon him.

It was then only, that the birds appeared to know of the approach of another intruder: they stretched forth their wide wings, and each of them, at the same moment, seized the lamb with one foot, and stood fluttering on the other, at the edge of the nest. Dingle reached out his left hand and dragged the child to him; and with his right, before you'd breathe, struck the bird that was nearest him--it was the cock--a blow on the head, with Bat Boroo's oaken cudgel, that knocked him over the edge of the nest; and down he fell, in a way that made those below think he was killed; but after falling many yards, he fluttered his wings, and soon recovered enough to fly to a resting-place. The hen, at the moment her mate got the blow, screamed so that the rocks rung with it, and got upon the wing. She wheeled round in the air, and rose, to all appearance, for the purpose of making a terrible stoop upon her enemy. There wasn't any time to be lost:--James Dingle pushed both the young eagles out of the nest; they were able to keep themselves up; and the ould hen, instead of making a descent upon James, altered her course, flew towards her young, and kept close to them, until they had reached, and were safe perched upon, the point of one of the peaks, that grew up by the side of the crag.

While this was doing, Dingle got into the nest, bid Millet crawl back through the hole with the child, and in a short time followed. He had made up his mind to explore his way through the hills; for, thinks he, Misther Millet never could have got here, if the road's difficult; unless, indeed, the eagles carried him up; but that's not likely:--so I'll try; and it's odd, from this height, if I can't discover the way down, whatever may be said of its being impossible. The hen-eagle, too, kept hovering about, and would, no doubt, soon be joined by her mate; and--do you mark?--if he pulled up the rope by the cord he had, and let down the baby, the great chance was, whether one of the ould birds--to say nothing of the fear he had of its getting hurt against the rocks,--wouldn't pounce upon and destroy it, as it swung mid-way in the air. So he determined to try his luck, and began descending. Misther Millet amused him by his story as they wint: but the gentleman couldn't remember one inch of the way he came; and if Norah Cavanagh's child hadn't been carried off the way I tould you, Jack Dax would have lost a nephew, and the world Misther Millet: for I can't but think he'd have died somewhere about the hills, or been killed by the eagles; and so, one way or other, met with the same fate as the boy did that was seen in the nest long ago, and never got back.

When the people below saw that James Dingle waved his stick triumphantly,--as he did before he left the nest,--and had disappeared for some time, though the eagles hadn't harmed him, they reminded one another of the way to the crag over the hills, and thought he was trying to find it. And when they asked Malachi Roe, he made a speech again,--that is, a speech for the likes of such a one as him:--says he, “I've no doubt but he is; he'd be a fool if he didn't; for look at the eagles above, between this and the nest.”

“True,” says Mick Maguire; “that didn't occur to us, whin he wint up. Any how, he might have killed them both,--and then there'd be no danger in letting down the baby,--he might have done that, if he'd taken my gun. And I'm thinking that Bat Boroo's stick--”

“What's your opinion, Malachi?” said Father Killala, interrupting Mick;--and it's the only fault he has: for he'd never hear one of my stories half through, without asking two or three hundred questions; and then, may be, he'd go off in the middle of it. But he's a fine man, and that's his only fault, or, I'd rather say, it's a way he has that's not pleasant to some people, though Mick didn't mind it. “What's your opinion, Malachi?” says Father Killala; “do you think James Dingle will find his way back?”

“With the blessing of Providence, I've no doubt of it,” replied Malachi;--“no one ever came back from it yet, it's true; but there never was such a man as James Dingle got into the nest before.”

“He knows the country as well as any one here, I suppose,” observed the Priest.

“Better, Father Killala,” said Malachi.

With this, most of the people came back, bringing poor Norah with them; and she was comforted in a great degree. Still she'd terrible fears, and a multitude of bad fancies; but every one strove to console her: those who wouldn't spake to her before, wept for her now; and Norah Cavanagh was grateful to them for it. A few watched the crag; but most of the people, as I said, came away: and they might be seen hanging together in knots about the place, doing nothing the rest of the morning but watch in hopes of seeing James Dingle appear. Some wint up among the hills to scout for him; though that wasn't much use, for nobody knew which way he'd come back.

Hours and hours passed on, but still no news of James Dingle! And his aunt, who heard of what had been done, was almost frantic at the foot of the hill, beyond The Beg. It was long she waited, and often she looked up the crags, but still there was no sign of her nephew:--it was past mid-day, and all the people got round her, and every body began to despair but Malachi.

At last two men was seen coming down from above; and who should they be, as you'll guess, but James Dingle and small Misther Millet! Young Dingle had Norah Cavanagh's child in his arms, and Millet was helping himself on as well as he could by Bat Boroo's big stick.

I won't describe what big Jack Dax,--who was there,--said on seeing his nephew again; I'll rather take up your time by telling you what a better man, and that's Father Killala, did:--though Misther Dax is a good soul, and much liked; but, of course, not to be mentioned with the Priest. And the truth is, big Jack Dax didn't waste much time in words but, with little or no ceremony, hoisted his poor worn-out little nephew on his own broad shoulders, and so hoiked him off home to The Beg. It was himself--I mane the Priest,--that took the child out of James Dingle's arms, and when he'd seen it was alive and well, he motioned all the people about him to be silent: then, turning to young Dingle, he said, in a tone that those who heard it won't soon forget, “James Dingle, you're the father of this child!”

Every soul stood amazed, and nobody spoke but Dingle himself. “What makes you say so, sir?” said he.

“What?” exclaimed Father Killala: “what but that we've all witnessed to-day?--Your humanity made you offer money to any one that would scale the crag, when you merely knew that a child had been carried off by the eagle; but as soon as you heard the child was Norah Cavanagh's, you prepared to go yourself. None but the father of this babe would have ventured as much for it as you have to-day;--you are that father, James Dingle. In the face of Heaven above us,--before your countrymen,--in the sight of that lost young woman,--and with this unhappy being on your bosom,”--and he placed the child in young Dingle's arms as he spoke,--“with this in your bosom, you cannot--dare not deny it!”

“I don't deny it, Father Killala,” replied James Dingle.

It's said the Priest himself looked a little surprised at this; but he wint on:--“Then, Mr. Dingle, as you're a man, I trust it's your intention to follow up this great day's work, by doing right to her that you've wronged.”

“He never wronged me, Father Killala,--blessings on him!” said Norah Cavanagh.

Well! how all this would end, no soul could guess. The good Priest looked more astonished than before, and not a little angry at Norah. “And are you so lost to shame,” said he to her--“has vice made you so abandoned--”

“She never was lost to shame, and don't know vice;” interrupted James Dingle, rather warmly: “I'll uphould her to be as pure and virtuous as any here.”

James Dingle's aunt, who had stood mute with amazement all this time, now broke silence. “What's all this I hear?” exclaimed she:--“Why, he'll say next she's an honest man's wife, and himself her husband.”

“That's just how it is, aunt,” replied James.

Without repeating more of that part of their discourse, word for word, I may as well tell you, that Dingle owned to his enraged aunt, he'd married Norah secretly, under a promise of getting the aunt's forgiveness within a month or so; but as Norah was a Catholic, and the Dingles were Protestants, and the ould woman herself was as proud as them that was her betters, and so adverse to a Catholic for her nephew's wife, that she'd as soon have done any thing as agree to such a thing;--as, I say, all this was the case,--and James should have thought of it before, shouldn't he?--though his heart was a stout one, he hadn't the courage to mention his marriage to her. When his wife--for so I'll call her now--found he broke his promise, and wouldn't save her from the shame that was fast coming upon her, she resolutely refused to have any--even the slightest--communication with him, and scorned to accept the smallest mite of assistance from his hand: but worked hard and supported herself, and by-and-by her baby too;--bowing, down before her bad luck, and taking it as a penance for doing wrong, as she had, by such a marriage; but under all, trusting to Providence for better days.

James Dingle freely confessed how bad he'd acted; and Norah repeated over and over, it wasn't his wish she should work as she had;--but she would. The only excuse he could make was, the situation of his sisters; who, as every one knew, like himself, were quite dependent on his aunt for support. “And though,” says he, “I'm strong and able, and could well keep them by the sweat of my brow, they'd break their hearts in a month, after being brought up the way they have; and I was sure my aunt would turn them out, the day I owned to marrying Norah. But that's but a poor plea for me:--I should have looked to my wife first;--I feel it here!” says he, striking his breast, “I'm a good-for-nothing scoundrel, and them that doesn't despise me is a'most as bad as myself. I made up my mind how I'd act, coming down the crags, with the child smiling up like an angel of goodness in my face, and so telling me, in that mute way, to repent and do right, without more delay. I determined on this, before Father Killala spoke to me;--believe it or no, which way you please.--Norah, I'll go home with you, and in your own little cabin ask your forgiveness; next, I'll beg that of my sisters, who, I suppose, will be sent to me at once;--I begged it from above long ago. Aunt, after the poor return I've made to you for all you did for me and mine before now, it's useless to ask grace of you for myself, I suppose; but my knees wouldn't be stiff, if I thought I could, by entreating, obtain a continuance of your bounty to them who hav'n't offended you;--of course, I mane my sisters. Whether or no, aunt, I'll always be grateful; and do as you will, I'll not repine.”

But James Dingle's aunt didn't mind what her nephew said, and wouldn't even listen to Father Killala, but raved and stormed with such violence, that every one thought her passion must soon blow over; but the more she blustered, the better she seemed to be for it. Bat Boroo got his big stick and retired to the rear, seemingly a little frightened or so; Duck Davie rubbed the palms of his hands together, and felt delighted to see the ould lady in such a pucker,--no doubt he did; Mick Maguire stood leaning upon the muzzle of his gun, staring with wonder at her chin going up and down at such a rate; and Luke Fogarty poked his bull's horn as near as he well could to her mouth, to pick up as much of her discourse as his deafness would let him.

At last, as all things must have an end, young Dingle's aunt stopped talking; but without being a bit more contented than when she began. Just then, little Norah knelt down before her, and with tears in her eyes asked, would she forgive her nephew, if she (Norah) left the place for everwith her baby, and wint away to such parts, that none who knew her should ever see sight of her more.

But James Dingle and Ileen stepped up to the little Dillosk-woman as soon as the words were out of her mouth; and one at one side, and one at the other, they raised her up.

“I can't agree to that,” says James Dingle.

“No; nor I,--nor any woman here,” says Ileen.

“I don't reproach you, Norah,” continued James, “for offering to leave me;--but I won't allow it. It's now, perhaps for the first time, I feel how very dear you are to me. I'll give up all for you,--all, Norah; and it's much I shall be in your debt even then.”

“The whole that I've to say about the matter, Mrs. Dingle, is this,” quoth Ileen; “you've no right to look down upon Norah though she's poor and a Catholic, bekase you're rich and a Protestant: for you were poor yourself, before your husband, that's dead, turned tithe-proctor; and your own uncle is now Coadjutor to the Parish-Priest of Ballydalough. There's not one belonging to you can say his grandfather ever had two chimneys to his house, or more than would buy a day's dinner in his pocket:--that I needn't tell you though, for you know it well enough, Mrs. Dingle. The buttermilk blood will shew itself; but you sha'n't trample upon Norah Cavanagh, while I, that's her own mother's second cousin, can get within a mile of her. She comes of a good family, Mrs. Dingle, and if you won't be a mother to her, I will!--I couldn't look upon her while every one had a right to think she'd disgraced herself; but now she's proved to be what she ought, I restore her to my heart.”

“Ah! why not be good humoured thin at once?” says Mick Maguire to the aunt; “make no more wry faces at the pill; but, though it's bitter, swallow it at once: why not thin, eh?--and don't be a fool!--If you make any more noise about it, I'll fire away all the powder I have to drown your voice.”

“I'll not have my aunt insulted, Mick,” says James Dingle: “neither by you, nor any one:--and I'd be better pleased with Heen had she said less.”

“I'm not one for asking lave what I shall say, before I spake, or begging pardon for what I've spoke, James Dingle;” replied Ileen.

“That's true,” observed her husband, ould Malachi Roe, in a remarkably positive tone.

Mrs. Dingle seemed to have a mind to begin again, when who should walk up to the place where the people were standing, but my lady from The Beg, leaning upon the arm of Pierce Veogh!--Mick Maguire let off his gun for joy at the sight; the piper played a merry jig; Father Killala and James Dingle shook hands with Pierce, and welcomed him heartily; and almost every body felt delighted: for Pierce, with all his faults, was much loved for many things;--chiefly, though, because he was born among us, and had been unfortunate.

“Thank God!” says he, as soon as he was let speak; “Thank God! I'm here among my people once more; and able to stand a free man on my own ground again. For clearing me of all my miseries,--for recalling me to the right path,--for restoring me to the house of my forefathers,--I am indebted to my wife.” The beautiful lady who still kept her arm in his, blushed, and held down her head, as he spoke these words. “My last creditor,” continued Pierce, “that rascally mushroom, Mick Purcell, was forced to give me a full acquittance this morning; an hour after that we were married: but it's only since Mr. Dax returned to The Beg with his nephew, that I heard what had happened; and it grieves me to find any one about me wretched at such a time as this. Mrs. Dingle, I don't like to boast of my few good deeds; but, I believe, on one occasion, I had it in my power to grant you an important favour;--did I refuse?”

Mrs. Dingle burst into tears, but made no reply.

“I understand you object to your nephew's choice, little Norah here, because she's a Catholic. My wife,” continued Pierce, “was a Protestant; I, as you know, am not: but, with her, the difference of our creeds was no bar to our union.”

Well--as I often say--to make a long story short, at last and in the long run, what with Father Killala's preaching, and Pierce Veogh's entreating, and his beautiful lady's winning smiles, and the tears of proud little Norah, James Dingle's aunt agreed to make it up with her nephew. Instead of going home with Norah that night to her own little mud cabin, he took her away to his aunt's house; and she has ever since lived upon good terms with the ould woman, and her nieces to boot.

Pierce Veogh had intended to have made no noise about his wedding that day; but to have kept open house at The Beg, from the next morning, for a whole week. However, as he'd shewn himself to the people, and reconciled his richest tenant to the marriage of her nephew with one of the poorest on the whole domain,--though there never was a better, except my lady, and few so good, upon it as little Norah,--he couldn't but ask every body to come home with him and make merry a little.

And it's merry enough they made themselves, as I can bear witness, for I was among them. They couldn't well get on without me; so Mick Maguire, and Bat Boroo, with Corney Carolan, and a whole fratarnity of them, came down to fetch me up to The Beg in pomp. But, bad luck to them!--they would have broke my neck if I hadn't a little thought for myself; for they'd a cup of the crature inside them before they started, and what should they propose but to knock out the head of a large empty cask that had been washed ashore close to my cabin that day week, and, as I couldn't walk, to roll me in it, over and over, right up to The Beg! This, of course, I couldn't allow; but, as there was no other vahicle to be had, I consented,--if they'd born square holes through the two ends of the cask, and get a pole to fit them,--to bestride it. So they did as I hinted, and away I wint, with the piper playing before me, and two or three o' them, under Bat Boroo's command, carrying me, straight off to The Beg; where I emptied so many piggins o' pothien to the health of my neighbours, that I know no more how or when I got home, than the man in the moon.

*****

THIRD COURSE: MY COUSIN'S CLIENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

As executor to my cousin, an attorney who had resided for upwards of thirty years in old Fumival's Inn, it became my duty to look over a quantity of his papers, in order to elucidate some important transactions, to which he had alluded in his will. The mass of documents was too weighty to admit of a removal; and, for some time after his decease, a variety of circumstances prevented me from devoting a morning to their examination at his chambers. At length, the feast of St. Swithin arrived:--the morning was ushered in, as is usually the case, with low and gloomy clouds; and at noon, a heavy shower, of several hours' duration, began to fall. The rain compelled me to abandon the business which I had intended to have done that day, and nothing of interest pressed for my attention at home. I lost an hour in going, alternately, to every window of the house; and, at the expiration of that time, as no symptoms of a change were perceptible,--Furnival's Inn being not far distant,--I resolved on passing the remainder of the morning at my late lamented cousin's chambers. So little inclination, however, had I for my task, that I should scarcely have had courage enough to sally forth in the rain, had I not felt a strong presentiment of an approaching visit from two respectable, but very prosing old ladies,--the poppies of every party in which they appeared,--who invariably took advantage of very wet days, to visit such of their acquaintance as were frequently from home; because, as they said, with some truth, scarcely any one was then out but themselves. Under a laudable fear of the heavy influence which these respectable old gentlewomen would have on my spirits, during such a remarkably dull day, and knowing, from past experience, that when they came, they usually stayed to dine, I glode forth, “like sparkle out of brode,” without saying a word to any body; took a hearty lunch at a coffee-house; hurried towards Furnival's Inn; and, at five o'clock, was jocosely reported, to the two old ladies whose visit I had anticipated, as being, notwithstanding the wetness of the day, “absent without leave.”

ADAM BURDOCK.

Although a very plodding man of business, during the summer and autumn of his life, my cousin Adam had been rather wayward in his youth. After the completion of his articles of clerkship, in the office of an eminent firm in the Temple, he oscillated, for several months, between Mount Parnassus and the Temple of Justice. During that period, he made out a _catalogue raisonné_ of above three hundred authors,--most of them men of considerable eminence,--who had deserted law for literature; and my cousin Adam would, perhaps, have followed their example, had not a young lady whom he loved,--and of whose taste and judgment he entertained a very high opinion,--treated a copy of verses, composed by him in her praise, and which he considered his poetical _chef-d'ouvre_, not merely with coolness, but positive contempt. Her sneers at his rhapsody were so galling, that he set his face for ever against love and literature,--lived an attorney, and died a bachelor.

A good hand at making out bills of costs is an invaluable acquisition to a legal practitioner; a superior statement of charges being, in fact, a concise but clear history, subdivided into items, of the suit to which it refers. Adam Burdock's attendance books were masterly performances in this respect: almost every action, or legal affair, was, as I discovered during my examination of his papers, an interesting little romance; and there appeared to be much of that quality which is, by many modern writers, termed poetry, in the law. My cousin's bills frequently contained moral, as well as pecuniary charges against his clients: for the sake of being explicit, he was evidently compelled, on many occasions, to envelop an accusation in a formal debit. All attornies, as I have since been told, labour, more or less, under this disadvantage: a man acts wisely, therefore, in keeping his legal adviser's bill “aloof from public eye;” it is often a record of follies and offences, for which, perhaps, after they are passed, he blushes and repents. A precise, old-fashioned solicitor's ledger would form a capital volume for the study of human nature: the characters of his clients, their whims, their frailties and their sins, are accurately unfolded in its pages; the sources and consequences of events may therein, without difficulty, be traced; the gradations of a spendthrift, from opulence to penury, are finely marked by the progressive _venues_ from Bond Street to the Bench, in which the attendances against him are laid; and a wholesome moral may, very often, be found in the concluding items of a lawyer's bill.

My cousin Adam's draft sketches of costs, the elaborate marginal memoranda which he had made on them, apparently, for his own amusement,--being, perhaps, under the influence of the _cacoethes_ which, in his younger days, he had “scotch'd, not kill'd,”--and the documents to which such sketches and memoranda referred, afforded data for the following tales. Should they prove deficient in interest to the reader, I must either have erred in selecting, or failed in narrating them; for many of my cousin's papers, and especially his briefs, were to me such amusing details of matters of fact, that, for the first time in my life, I heartily enjoyed a wet Saint Swithin's day.

THE MATHEMATICIAN.

“A glorious morning, Hassell,” said a spruce middle-aged man, as he walked up one side of the old square of Furnival's Inn, with a small valise under his arm, to a short, pale, elderly gentleman, who was listlessly strolling, in a morning gown, slippers, and velvet cap, on the opposite pathway, and in a contrary direction;--“a glorious morning as ever was seen,--bright--clear--but by no means sultry:--an excellent morning, I protest, and just to my taste.”

“Why, sir,” replied the pale old gentleman, “I must say it's fine country weather; and, I dare swear, delightful to you, who are just on the brink of quitting the miserable metropolis until the morrow of All Souls.”

“No, no,” interrupted the first speaker, in a brisk tone; “I shall only be away a month; Trout and Thomas is appointed at bar early in the term, and I must be home after the first three days of pheasant shooting to marshal my evidence. I've a _subpoena duces tecum_ to produce the papers in Wagstaff's commission at the Cornwall assizes;--_that_ carries me clear to Bodmin: and I'm going on a visit to an old client, who lives but eleven miles further; so that the costs out of pocket of my autumnal rustication, this year, will be but a flea-bite.”

“Ah! thou'rt a fortunate fellow,” said Hassell, with a sigh; “here have I been tied by the leg, ever since Trinity term, with annoyances growing out of Joshua Kesterton's will; and fine weather makes me rabid, because I can't go into the country to enjoy it. Adam Burdock and I will now be the only two principals left in the Inn, except bed-ridden Bailey and poor mad Royston.”

“Burdock does not ruralize, I believe.”

“Not he: and if he had a mind so to do, he couldn't just now; for he's shackled with the same case as myself.”

“But can't you meet each other half-way, and close it at once?”

“Impossible:--it's such an Augean stable, that a regiment of attornies, with a legal Hercules at their head, could not do the needful in a night. We can't get at the facts,--at least we could not until within these few days; and the results of our investigations are so unexpected and staggering, that Adam and I,--and, indeed, all parties concerned,--are well nigh paralysed. Such a case has not come under my cognizance for years: if you were not in such a hurry I'd surprise you.”

“I'm not pressed,--not at all. I share a chaise with another witness who picks me up in his way from the city; so I have only to keep my eye on the gates:--pray step across.”

“No, hang it! the sun shines there; see how it exposes the clefts and time-worn face of the building, so that the entire side of the Inn looks as though it were in the last stage of decrepitude: it even makes _you_ look ten years older than you say you are, friend Waters. An elderly man should always walk in the shade.”

“What whims and fancies!” said Waters, stepping lightly across the square. “You're the strangest fellow!--but come, your case, in a few words.”

“Thus it is with us, then excuse me, but even in the shade you look really past the figure you put yourself at:--let me Bee, fifty-four, isn't it?”

“Forty-seven! my good fellow! What the deuce--”

“Rely upon it you're labouring under a mistake: it's full thirty years since I first met you in Jay's writ of right.--Speaking of you, I should say, in defiance of verbal statement founded on memory,--which is treacherous, I find, with regard to age, when we are getting grey,--but judging from the date written by the hand of time on the face of the deed, in wrinkles as crabbed as court-hand--”

“I'm sixty. Well, well, be it so; and now for your case.”

“No, Waters, you are not sixty; because if you were, by my reckoning, I should be sixty-seven, which I am not: but to resume. This is our case:--Joshua Kesterton came to London with no character, and nothing but a penny loaf in his pocket Good luck threw him in the way of the well-known Paul Winpennie: Paul had compassion on him, and raised him, by degrees, from an errand boy in his office, to first clerk; and, at last, took him in as joint partner in all his concerns. After some time, Paul retired to enjoy a splendid ease for the rest of his life. At the end of five years, he discovered a secret, namely, that an immense quantity of leisure was the worst stock a mercantile man could possibly have on hand. He was suddenly seen in the city again: whether he was not so keen as when he left it, or men had grown keener during his retirement, I know not; but Paul Winpennie, under whose touch every thing used to turn into gold, made ducks and drakes of his money; and, by half-a-dozen unlucky, or, as the world says, mad-cap speculations, was reduced from affluence to comparative beggary.”

“Well, all this occurs every day, Hassell,” said Waters.

“Ay, ay; but these are only preliminary facts.”

“Unfortunately--”

“Hold your tongue, and hear me out. Well, the inquest jury--I omitted to say he was found dead one morning in his room;--the inquest jury returned a verdict of' 'died by the visitation--'”

“But I thought it was generally believed that he died of a broken heart, produced by grief.”

“We have nothing to do with broken hearts and grief, as a man of your standing on the rolls ought to feel; we can only be governed by the record. But if the coroner's return had been _felo de se_, there would have been little for the crown to take but his wife; and she, I think, from all I know of her, would have been deemed an incumbrance, by most people; although she soon got another husband.”

“What! pauper as she was?”

“I said no such thing: if you interrupt me, I shall punish you by being prolix. Joshua Kesterton departed this life very shortly after his friend and benefactor, Winpennie, and, in a spirit of gratitude to the founder of his fortune, bequeathed a legacy of ten thousand pounds to Paul's widow.”

“Bravo!”

“No, sir, it was not 'bravo!'--he acted like an ass; for his own daughter, whom he left residuary legatee, was beggared by the bequest. Partly through his own ignorance of the actual state of his affairs,--partly through unexpected but apparently valid claims, made on his estate after his death, and the failure of a firm, who were his principal creditors,--when we obtained a tolerable insight to his affairs, we discovered that, after satisfying the creditors, and paying the legacy to Mrs. Winpennie, which, you perceive, was a positive bequest, whereby she had a clear claim of priority over his residuary legatee, the poor girl, instead of having, as her father doubtlessly expected, a fine fortune, will scarcely get enough to pay for her mourning.”

“A had case,” said Waters; “but won't Mrs. Winpennie do something for the girl?”

“That's a riddle which I can't solve,” said Hassell; “for, before she had an opportunity to do so, or, in fact, before she knew that her legacy would make a skeleton of the estate, she got snapped up by a young fellow, who says he's a Dane, but whom I suspect to be a Kerryman. From all I can learn, he doesn't feel disposed to forego a farthing; and, as the woman married him without a settlement, he can do as he pleases, you know, with the money, when he gets it. I sincerely wish it may be soon, so that I can get out of town. The investigation of the claims of the principal creditors for whom I am concerned, is now within an ace of being concluded. As soon as the executors get our releases, of course, this gentleman, as he calls himself, who married the widow Winpennie, will insist on the full legacy; and however well inclined our friend Burdock, and his clients the executors, may be towards the poor girl, who, I must tell you, was married into a mighty high, but very poor family, before her father's death, I can't see how they can help her. By George! here she comes,--I dare say, on a visit to Burdock,--and without her husband! That's odd. Poor thing! I'd rather not seem to see her. Let us cross over, and I'll stroll with you to the gateway.--Don't stare at her, and I'll be obliged to you.”

The two attornies walked to the other side of the square, and the lady passed hastily down the Inn towards Burdock's chambers. As she ascended the staircase she heard him speaking, in rather a tender tone, at the door of his office, apparently, to some person who was taking leave of him; and, on reaching the first landing-place, she met a female, attired in a very gaudy manner, and altogether of rather singular appearance, whose handkerchief was held to her eyes as though she were weeping, or desirous of concealing her face. When his fair client reached the office door, which still remained open, Burdock was pacing to and fro within, evidently much vexed and agitated.

“Are you alone, Mr. Burdock?” timidly inquired the lady, after she had stood at the door for a short time without being able to attract the notice of the attorney.

“My dear madam, I ask a thousand pardons,” replied Burdock, advancing towards her; “I have been so annoyed that--Did you meet a lady in sulphur and sky-blue?”

“I did, sir: she appeared to be in tears.”

“All! poor woman! she is much to be pitied; and yet, I protest, her appearance is so questionable, that I sincerely regret that the unhappy state of her affairs led her to pay me a visit. Had she not brought a letter, which I hold in my hand, from a most respectable friend in the country, I should certainly have scrupled to receive her. She's very unfortunate, though, I declare.”

“But what are her griefs to mine, sir?”

“My dear Mrs. Wyburn, as I have often told you, bad as your case is, there are thousands who would deem your situation a state of bliss compared with what they suffer. Here, for instance, is this poor woman, forty years of age at least, weak enough to come to me with paint on her cheeks, and dressed in blue and brimstone, but with acute feelings, notwithstanding her folly, who marries a man for love, and, in a few days after the ceremony, is deserted and robbed by him of what should have supported her in old age.”

“Wretched woman! like me, then, she is a beggar, I suppose!” said Mrs. Wyburn.

“I fear the poor creature is almost penniless, indeed:--her business with me was to receive a small sum, which my friend, from whom she brought the letter I hold, had confided to me three years ago, to invest for her. I placed it in the hands of your late lamented father; and she holds his note for the amount: but we can't pay her. If she had not told me she had a husband in whom the title now vested, having had no notice from him of the marriage, she must, of course, have had her money:--but now it's impossible. And the woman implored me so not to let her starve, that, in order to pacify and get rid of her, I have been compelled to request her to call again; for which I am now most heartily sorry. I feel ashamed to have her seen go out of my office. But, odso! my dear madam! how is it that I see you alone?--Where is your husband?”

“In prison!”

“At whose suit?”

“In truth, I cannot tell: it is enough for me to know that he is a prisoner, and that I do not possess the means of setting him at liberty. Kind Mr. Burdock, will you still listen to me?--Will you give me your counsel?”

“I am grieved--heartily grieved,” said Burdock; “but I really feel at a loss how to advise--how to benefit you.”

“Oh! you can--you can, indeed; or, if you cannot, there is none on earth who will. You know not half of my distresses. I am a thousand-fold more wretched than you imagine. Pity me, sir;--pity me, and I will pray for you.”

“I do pity you, most sincerely,” said Burdock, considerably affected; “but let me implore you to be calm.”

“I will be calm as marble, sir. I have told you my husband is in prison, without shedding a tear;--and now, without a sigh, I will tell you, that my sorrows are of such a nature that I cannot--dare not--must not breathe a hint to him of what I suffer.”

“You positively alarm me, my dear madam. I cannot imagine you to have been guilty of any imprudence: and if not, what is there that a wife devotedly attached, as I know you are, to her husband, cannot confide to his bosom?”

“Oh! much, much, Mr. Burdock. I have no friend,--none in the world, to whom I can tell my afflictions, but you; and I have no claim on you to hear them: you have endured too many vexations, in your struggles for my welfare, already.”

“I regret that no better success has attended my poor endeavours, Mrs. Wyburn; but, believe me, that as far as prudence will allow, my best exertions are still at your service.”

“Then you will hear and advise me?”

“I will, as I hope for mercy, to the best of such judgment as I am endowed with.”

“Oh! thank you, thank you!--on my knees I will thank you.”

“Nay, nay! I must not be repaid thus: I shall charge the consultation in my bill, and I hope you will one day pay it,” said the attorney, with a smile. “Come, again let me entreat you to be calm.”

“I am sure I shall be so:--I have overcome the bitterness of bringing my mind to tell you my little tale, and I feel capable of doing so properly. Your kindness gives me additional courage and self-command. I shall endeavour to restrict myself to simple facts, and I will go through the task, unless my heart break in the attempt. Are we free from interruption?”

“Entirely so; my clerks are both out, and I will answer no one until you have done.”

“Then I will begin at once. I solemnly enjoin you, sir, not to reveal what I am about to tell you to any mortal; for, alas! it concerns my husband's honour,--nay, even his life. Much as he loves me, I think he would deprive me of existence, rather than let me make you acquainted with his weakness,--I will say his crime: but as it may save us both from being even more wretched than we are, I will trust it to your ear. When George Wyburn married me, he knew I had considerable expectations, and, therefore, did not demand a settlement. My poor father allowed us a handsome income, while he lived; George was high-spirited and gay, but not extravagant; and we had enough,--nay, something to spare, after our yearly expenses were paid, until within a few months before my father's death, when a sad and sudden change came over us. At Harrowgate, my husband,--Heaven knows how,--formed an acquaintance with a man, who, after a short time, was our constant visitor and George's bosom friend. In three months, under the influence of his associate, my husband became a gambler and a duellist! He was still kind to me, and I concealed his faults from my father. Vain were all my attempts to reclaim him: I had lost my power of persuading him, but yet I feel sure he loved me. I now bitterly lament my folly in keeping his proceedings a secret from my father; for he went on in his evil ways. At last the climax arrived: he lost more than he could pay; and, unable to bear up against the dishonour which his default would have brought upon him, he abruptly quitted Harrowgate with a determination to destroy himself. He wrote to his new friend, stating that, ere the letter reached its destination, he should be numbered with the dead. He declared that he felt unable to address his poor wife; but he warmly recommended her to the care of him to whom he wrote, and begged that her unfortunate husband's fate might be revealed to her as gradually as possible. The wretch came to me as he was desired: he told me a little, and I learnt the rest from the letter which George had sent him. Accompanied by this man, I made all possible haste to the place whence George had written. I found him alive and unhurt. His pistols were lying on the table before him, when I rushed into the room, and he was writing to me: he could not leave the world without bidding me an eternal adieu! He had lingered over the paper, which was damped by his tears; but, from the language of the sentence which he was penning when we entered, his resolution to destroy himself seemed to have been unshaken; and I am convinced that, had we not arrived sooner than he expected, and had not his heart urged him to assure me that he loved and blessed me in his last moments, I should that day have been a widow. He embraced and wept over me, but blushed before his friend, and seemed dreadfully enraged at our arrival. When I, at length, succeeded in soothing him a little, he asked my companion to advise him how he ought to act. The reply I can never forget. It was this:--'Why, truly, Mr. Wy-burn, after having stated that you were going to commit suicide, there is but one course to save your reputation, namely,--to keep your word: but as I suppose no one but myself, except your wife, is acquainted with the circumstance, no doubt you will see the wisdom of suffering certain notions, which, perhaps, are rather too rigorously attended to, in some quarters, giving place to the dictates of religion, et cetera;--that is, if you feel satisfied that I can be depended on to keep your secret.' 'Will you swear to do so?' asked my husband. 'Nay,' replied the other, 'if you doubt me, you have your remedy. Were I capable of wronging my friend, I surely should not be prevented from so doing by the comparatively cobweb fetters of a private oath.' Subsequently, I prevailed upon him, by reproaches and entreaties, to promise me solemnly that he would relinquish all thoughts of carrying his fatal resolution into effect: but he made the most solemn vow, that if either I or his friend betrayed the weakness, or, to use his own words, the cowardice he had shewn, in not completing what he had meditated, he should certainly blow out his brains the first opportunity; for he never could exist under the idea that he was the laughing-stock of the world. Summoning up his fortitude, he returned with us to Harrowgate: and, in a few days, a portion of what he had lost at the gaming-table was paid; for the remainder, he gave bonds payable on the death of my father; and I firmly believe he has never touched the dice-box since.”

“Then I am glad to say all seems to have ended more happily than could have been expected,” observed Burdock.

“Not so, sir,--not so, indeed,” replied Mrs. Wyburn; “that fatal friend still hovers near him;--my husband still hugs the snake that destroys while he embraces him. Those gambling debts, I am certain, were contracted by my husband with the villain's confederates.”

“Then the bonds have been, at length, put in force against him?”

“They have; and I now owe my husband's loss of liberty, as I once almost did the loss of his life, to the machinations of Blennerhagen?”

“Blennerhagen!” exclaimed the attorney, considerably surprised; “you surely do not mean _our_ Mr. Blennerhagen,--he who married Paul Winpennie's widow!”

“He is the man,” replied Mrs. Wyburn: “he obtained an introduction to Mrs. Winpennie by means of my husband. Foolish as she is, and lucky as she has been, in one respect,--alas! to my sorrow,--I sincerely pity her; for miserable will be her fate. She is linked to a calm, determined villain, who entertains no spark of affection for her: the possession of my poor father's legacy, and not her person, was his object in marrying her.”

“And how do you know this, my dear madam?”

“Oh, sir! Blennerhagen has thrust his confidence upon me, and I have been compelled to listen to him. Unhappily, he has, or pretends to have, a passion for me; and I have endured the confession from his own lips. He has boldly told me, that, had George committed suicide, he should have offered me his hand, as soon as decency would have permitted him to do so. You find, sir, that I am as good as my word: I tell you this without a blush or a tear, while _you_ shudder!”

“Shudder! ay, and I well may. Thou dost not blush or weep, indeed, my poor young sufferer; but thy cheek is deathly pale, and thy eyes seem burning in their sockets. I beseech you, let us postpone this.”

“Nay, nay, pray hear me to an end: I have brought my courage to bear it all; if I relapse, I cannot work upon myself to go through the ordeal again.”

“But why not unmask this villain--this hypocrite--this wolf?”

“Your honest indignation makes you forget that my husband's life is in his power. That fatal letter, which George wrote to him when he quitted Harrowgate with a determination to commit suicide, is still in the possession of Blennerhagen; I saw him take it from his pocket-book but two days ago, although he protests to George that it is destroyed: and the publication of it would, I fear, hurry my husband to self-destruction at once. I know George's temper so well, that I tremble at the idea of incurring so great a risk; and yet what else to do I know not; for the demon, after persecuting me in vain, for months, now holds that hand-writing before my eyes, and dares me to be virtuous!”

“The monster! I will move mountains, but he shall be defeated,--ay, and punished.”

“Thank you, thank you!--my heart thanks you: I knew your will would be good: but, alas! I doubt your power. You know not with whom you have to deal. Blennerhagen prides himself on being impregnable: he talks to me of working like a mathematician: he says that all his plans are laid down with such geometrical precision that they cannot fail. He has thrown such a magic web about me, that I have felt myself to be almost his slaye; and yet, thank heaven, I am innocent, and loathe him. Save me, Mr. Burdock!--but not at the expense of my husband's life: save me, I implore you!--I have no other friend.”

“I will save--I will extricate you, if it be in the power of man. I have worked like a negro for my money, and may soon be past working, and want it. I have debarred myself of every indulgence; but I can--I will afford to gratify my feelings, for once in my life, even at the risk of diminishing some of my hard-earned little hoard. Mrs. Wyburn, I'll back myself, if need be, with a thousand pounds, and,--confound the fellow,--have at him! Excuse me for swearing; but I'm warmed, and feel a pleasure in indulging--”

“Be temperate, sir, in your proceedings, lest you forget that next to my own innocence, my husband's life--”

“Do not fear, madam. Is Mr. Wyburn in prison, or at a lock-up house?”

“At the lock-up house, sir, in Serle's Buildings.”

“Then I'll bail him. Hassell may laugh at me, when he hears that I have stepped out of my cautious path, if he likes; but I'll begin by bailing Wyburn: for his liberty, at this time, is of the utmost value. Within a few days, the great straggle will come on, which must settle the main question between Hassell's clients and the executors: on the fortunate result of that depends your only hope; and a poor hope it is, I must confess: still, Wyburn should be at large to fight it out, and strive to the last After to-day, I ought to be in hourly consultation with him.

“Blennerhagen knows all this; and, not expecting God would raise up such a friend to George, has caused him to be arrested. As he boasts of generally making his actions produce double results, he flatters himself, also, that I, being thus overwhelmed with this new misfortune, and deprived of the protecting presence of my husband,--”

“Curse him!--he shall be foiled! I won't put up with it, while I have breath!”

“I must tell you,--for, as you now have heard so much, you should know all,--that one of the threats or temptations he holds out to me, is this:--'Wyburn,' he says, 'will soon, in all probability, be entirely dependent on my bounty; for having, through my marriage with Mrs. Winpennie, an entire control over the ten thousand pounds legacy, which will, apparently, eat up the whole of your father's property, after payment of the debts, I can starve Wyburn, if I like.' This is a specimen of the language which he dares to use to me. Had I my jewels left, I could have raised a sufficient sum, perhaps, to procure George his liberty, without troubling you; but Blennerhagen obtained them from me long ago, without Mr. Wyburn's knowledge, by protesting that he had spent all he possessed to keep the bondholders quiet, and wanted money to enable him to make a figure before Mrs. Winpennie. I have been very weak and very foolish, you will say; but what could I do? Blennerhagen dares me to reveal a syllable of what passes at our interviews, to my husband: he tells me that he should instantly detect my treachery by George's conduct. I am forced to see--to hear him:--he is the worst of tyrants. If I strive to extricate myself from his wiles, I plunge deeper in his toils. To remain passive is to offer up myself a willing victim to a being, whom, of all others, I abhor. Could I have taken counsel of my husband, all might have been well: but I have not dared to breathe a word to him of my sorrows; and Blennerhagen well knows how to obtain advantages over a wife, deprived, as I have been, of her natural supporter.”